


be still, my indelible friend

by CheevesDinkley



Category: Scooby Apocalypse (Comics), Scooby Doo - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Sad Ending, angsty, not violent but i describe some wounds, takes place between issues 35 and 36, the fraphne is all past stuff, what is angst without simultaneous first aid, zombie!fred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 09:03:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18362843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheevesDinkley/pseuds/CheevesDinkley
Summary: At Complex Beta, Daphne bonds with the new Fred.





	be still, my indelible friend

**Author's Note:**

> wanted to get this out before issue 36 comes out and invalidates it all. *title is from wasteland, baby! by hozier

Complex Beta was… sterile.

 

It was a dramatic change from what Daphne had grown so used to while living in the Henry Hudson Mall. A life that had once consisted of dusty mattresses and tear-stained pillows thrown haphazardly on the floor of an old cellphone repair shop had been suddenly wiped away in favor of stark white walls and sliding bedroom doors that required a key-card to open instead of a crowbar.

 

She couldn’t say she minded the change in scenery. A long, hot shower with soap that wasn’t meant to be poured into the dispenser of a grungy mens’ room would have seemed great on a normal day. Today, after she’d watched her home of six months be blown to smithereens and nearly died at the hands of a mutant army, it was downright heavenly.

 

Daphne untangled the fluffy towel-- the softest thing she’d felt in God knows how long-- from her hair and used it to wipe the steam off of her bathroom mirror. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d had her own bathroom.

 

She ran a hand through her hair, which felt silky and clean for the first time in a year, and studied her physique carefully in the mirror. She’d changed a lot since the last time she’d taken a good look at herself-- her once slender build was now beefy and muscular, and her skin was peppered with scars, each one telling a different story of another near death experience.

 

She raised a hand to her cheek, where three now scabbed-over cuts fell perfectly in line down the right side of her face. A gift from one of Fred’s monsters.

 

She had to stop doing that. This man-- _thing_ , it wasn’t Fred. Whatever was inhabiting his body might think it was her “one true beloved,” but she’d watched him die with her own two eyes. Fred Jones was gone. And she was completely alone.

 

A buzz at her door caused Daphne to jump. She hadn’t gotten used to having a doorbell again. It was on her to-do list.

 

She opened the door with a quick swipe of her key-card and rolled her eyes at the sight of him. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Of course, in this case “the devil” was a 6’2” reanimated corpse calling itself her fiance, and she’d only thought of him. Then again, she hadn’t entirely ruled out the possibility that Fake-Fred could read minds. It was also on her to-do list.

 

“You shouldn’t be here.” She scoffed, retreating back into her room. Fake-Fred followed after her, and she huffed her annoyance. “Isn’t there some rule about guys and girls not going in each other’s rooms or something?”

 

“You’re 30, Daph, I think you’re liable to let whomever you want into your bedroom.” He offered with a slight chuckle. “Besides, aren’t Shaggy and Velma sharing a room?”

 

“The difference being that Shaggy and Velma are having a baby-- and I don’t want you in my bedroom!” As she spat out her words at him, she grabbed her towels off the floor and tossed them over the edge of the shower, then began picking up the discarded clothes she’d been wearing when she arrived and shoved them into a nearby garbage can. She usually hated chores, but anything that could keep her from having to look at Fake-Fred was worth it.

 

“Daphne.”

 

Daphne didn’t turn to face him, still trying aimlessly to busy herself on the other side of the room. She reached out towards her crisply made bed and tugged at the sheets, fluffing them out before tucking them back into their original place. _Whatever you do_ , she told herself, _just don’t look at him._

 

“Daphne!”

 

Fake-Fred reached out and grabbed her wrists, spinning her to face him. His touch was cold, and she tugged violently, yanking herself from his grasp. He most certainly was _not_ allowed to touch her.

 

Realising his error, Fred pulled his hands away, holding them up as if begging her not to shoot. He couldn’t be sure that she wasn’t hiding a tiny pistol somewhere in her Complex-issued sports bra and spandex shorts.

 

“Sorry,” he offered, “it’s just-- can we just talk? I feel like I can’t get you to listen without punching or stabbing me.”

 

“We had plenty of time to talk when you kidnapped me.” Daphne said, crossing her arms securely over her chest.

 

“I get that I can’t convince you that I’m really the old Fred,” he said, “But can I at least convince you to give the new Fred a chance? I promise I’ll cool it with the bloodlust and the ominous threats, okay?”

 

Daphne didn’t reply.

 

“I’m going to hug you now.”

 

She pulled away, clutching herself tightly. Fred nodded solemnly.

 

“Okay… How about a handshake then?” He extended his hand, which sat still in the silent air between them for far too long. Finally, Daphne reached out and shook his hand. She pulled it back quickly, a layer of muddy residue left behind.

 

“You reek.” She offered, wiping her hand off on her leg.

 

“Thanks.” He teased. Daphne almost smiled, but quickly reminded herself not to. This wasn’t Fred, after all.

 

“I’m serious.” She continued. “Have you even showered since we got here? Or, since you died, for that matter?”

 

Fred grinned sheepishly. “I’ve sort of been dreading it…”

 

Daphne studied him intensely. His clothes, face, and hands were all caked in some grotesque mixture of blood and dirt. His eyes were bloodshot, without pupils or irises that she could see. Among his wounds were a missing finger, the stab wound she’d left on his left shoulder, a few stray bullet holes and the large laceration left in his stomach by the monster that had killed him.

 

Cleaning him up would be a project, but she had time. Besides, it had been him who wanted to get close to her.

 

“Take off your shirt.” She said. “And your pants.”

 

Fred quirked his brow, but quickly got to work removing his dirty garments as Daphne retreated towards her closet, where she gathered the first-aid kit and the rest of the clothes that had been left for her. Hospital scrubs. Gray. About Fred’s size.

 

Fred shuffled awkwardly, realising how strange he felt to be standing in his boxers in front of Daphne. If it weren’t for the fact that his body served as a vessel for millions of tiny nanites that could kill hoards of mutants at his will, he would have almost said he felt vulnerable. The problem wasn’t so much the lack of clothes, as Daphne was in a similar state of undress, but rather that his insides seemed to be spilling out from a gaping hole in his middle.

 

Daphne pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, trying not to gag as he made his way towards her. She gestured with a nod of her head towards the shower, and he stepped inside.

 

The water came out ice-cold. Fred didn’t seem to notice.

 

The water warmed slowly as it washed over him, pooling around his feet in a murky brown color. Daphne could see the dirt being lifted from his arms and back, and she started to realize how much he really did look like Fred underneath all the grime.

 

But he wasn’t Fred. She couldn’t believe how often she had to remind herself of that.

 

“How do you do that, anyway?” She hissed, squirting a pile of shampoo into her fist and rubbing it into Fake-Fred’s hair. He jerked at the rough motion.

 

“Do what?” He asked.

 

“How is it that one second you’re licking up blood and monologuing about being humanity’s ‘one true saviour,’ and then I blink and suddenly you’re acting just like him?”

 

She tugged his head back upright. It had begun to hang.

 

“I told you,” he offered, “I’m not alone in my mind. It’s like there are all these different versions of me, and they all want to be in charge. But I’m the real me. I swear.”

 

Daphne grunted in response, undecided as to whether or not she believed his claims. Even if he was telling the truth, what good was a Fred whose body could be taken over by a flesh-eating psychopath at any given moment?

 

She glanced down. The shampoo between her fingers had turned a muddy brown color.

 

If their new digs had been a culture shock to Daphne, then Fred felt as if he was on an entirely different planet. His past six months had been spent spent wandering the Greater Albany Area, feasting on the raw flesh of mutants-- and his own finger, if memory served. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t bathed, and hadn’t even encountered another human up until the past few weeks. Now, his sudden assimilation into normal (or, close to normal) human society was proving a challenge. But Fred was determined.

 

The feeling of water against his skin was replaced with Daphne’s towel, and Fred stepped carefully out of the shower, sitting down on the closed toilet seat instead. Daphne reached out for the first aid kit and knelt down in front of him. She didn’t look up at Fred, but rather at the cuts and gashes that decorated his torso. She reached out, a disinfectant wipe in hand, and dabbed at the stab wound she’d given to Fred earlier that week.

 

“Does that hurt?” She asked, pulling away slightly. Fred detected a hint of a smile spread across her lips.

 

“No,” Fred answered honestly, “I don’t really feel pain, what with me being a corpse and all.” He chuckled, but Daphne didn’t seem to appreciate the humor. She scowled, returning to tend to his wounds with nothing more than a grunt. It was an insensitive joke, Fred figured. They’d lost different things when he died.

 

Fred may have looked different, but he felt the same. He was still the same man he’d always been, with the same feelings and memories. To Daphne, he was a stranger, serving only as a reminder of her traumatic loss.

 

Daphne pushed the needle through the edge of his skin, beginning to stitch up the stab wound. He didn’t flinch.

 

Fred used to flinch.

 

“Hey,” Fred started, hoping to grab Daphne’s attention, “remember in college when we got snowed in at your apartment, so we spent the whole night watching your mock newscasts from high school? And then--”

 

She cut him off with a stony glare, meeting his eyes with a look of both longing and disgust.

 

“That was a long time ago.”

 

She turned her attention to the large hole in his stomach and began to twist a long bandage around his middle. There was nothing that could be done to repair the wound, only cover it up and try to forget about it. Maybe if there was something that could have been done, Fred never would have died in the first place. Now, it was just a matter of erasing the memory.

 

But Daphne would never forget.

 

“So, what was it like?”

 

Daphne didn’t glance up from her work.

 

“What was _what_ like?”

 

Fred shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said quietly, “losing me, I guess.”

 

The bandage fell from Daphne’s hand.

 

The silence between them seemed to last an eternity. Daphne licked her lips, suddenly breaking it with a sharp intake of breath, so lost in thought she’d forgotten that questions were made to be answered.

 

“You…” Daphne paused, debating whether or not she was willing to finally address the rotting corpse in front of her as Fred. She didn’t bother correcting herself. “You were the only person I ever loved. Like, really loved. I was stupid, though. I spent years pretending I didn’t care about you, and then all of a sudden it was too late. All of a sudden you were dying in my arms. And now,” she paused, taking a deep breath, “now you’re here, and all you do is serve as a reminder that I missed my chance with the real thing.”

 

Daphne sniffed, tears beginning to well in her eyes. She hated the feeling. She didn’t want to cry, especially in front of Fred. Fake-Fred.

 

Fred reached out a four-fingered hand, allowing his pale gray skin to gently caress Daphne’s cheek. She didn’t pull away, but instead looked up at him with puffy, pleading eyes.

 

“You didn’t miss your chance.” Fred whispered, offering a reassuring smile. “I… _He…_ always knew.”

 

“Really?” She asked, tears now falling freely down her face. Fred wiped one away with his thumb.

 

“Always.”

 

Daphne collapsed onto his shoulder, producing heavy sobs and wails into the crook of his neck. If he were capable, Fred might have cried too.

 

Instead, he simply stroked her back, wishing he could give her the one thing she wanted more than anything. But deep down, he knew he couldn’t.

 

The old Fred was gone. And there was no bringing him back.

  



End file.
